


Highly Effective People

by moonlighten



Series: Feel the Fear [49]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 02:44:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>August, 2009: An Englishman, a Scotsman and a Welshman go on holiday to the Lake District.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Highly Effective People

**28th August, 2009; Lake District, England**

  
  
It had been America's proposal, initially. He'd been caught up in the whole ‘self-help' fad at the time, and England dimly recalled some talk of ‘bonding' and ‘team building', but had no recollection of why the hell he'd agreed with any of it, much less how he managed to persuade Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland likewise.  
  
Twenty-odd years later, they still wasted their August bank holiday weekend holed up together, failing to improve their relationship in any appreciable way, because they were all too bloody-minded to admit that it had been an appalling, unworkable idea in the first place.  
  
Windermere had been Scotland's suggestion for this year's trip, as the cousin of a friend of a bloke he knew from his local owned a cottage they could stay in. England had passed said cottage several times, thinking that it was an abandoned cowshed, but after an hour of driving up and down the same stretch of road, cursing Scotland for his inability to give comprehensible directions and America for ever having watched Oprah, he'd realised that, no, Scotland hadn't been lying when he'd said it was a ‘little basic'.  
  
England parked next to Scotland's beat-up Ford Escort, took a deep, fortifying breath, straightened his tie, thought longingly of being anywhere else in the world at that moment, and then forced himself to pick up his bags and get out of the car before he came to his senses and drove straight back home.  
  
The cottage was dark, save for a small flickering light at one of the downstairs windows which suggested that it, unsurprisingly, didn't have any electricity. England's feet, presumably informed by some subconscious part of his mind which was rightfully horrified at the thought of spending an extended period of time with his brothers without even the meagre solace of the telly as a distraction, took an involuntary step back towards the car.  
  
_It's only three days_ , England reminded himself. _Three days, and then we can go back to ignoring each other's existence most of the time. We lived together for hundreds of years, and managed to survive the experience. This is a walk in the park in comparison to_ that.  
  
He carefully avoided the natural conclusion - that they'd only survived by interacting with each other as little as they could – and pushed it to one side. Whatever his personal thoughts about the upcoming weekend, their boss had thought they were a splendid idea when Scotland had let slip about their trips a couple of years before, and had been subtly urging England to continue them ever since; yet one more reason that England's common sense wasn't getting a look in.  
  
"I understand it may be difficult, England", he'd said, "but it's for the good of the Union."  
  
_The good of the Union_. _The good of the Union_. England mentally repeated the words like a mantra, trying to draw strength from them. _The good of the Un_ –  
  
The screech of rusty hinges as England opened the cottage door cut through his chant, making it sound less like an affirmation and more like a needle skipping over a badly scratched record. An unpleasant smell wafted out from the dark hallway beyond: mostly mould and dust, overlaid by something faint but far more pungent. Possibly dead sheep.  
  
"England, we're in here," Scotland shouted from somewhere in the gloom as England wrestled with the door, which seemed to have changed shape and no longer fit the doorframe properly. "I hope you brought booze. We're running a bit low already."  
  
England gave up on the door, and followed the sound of his brother's voice to a small room illuminated by a mismatched array of candles stuck in the necks of empty beer bottles. The only furniture appeared to be an empty crate serving as a makeshift table – also covered with empties, England noted with a sinking heart – a lumpy armchair, and a narrow sofa on which his brothers were sitting; Wales on one side, and Scotland on the opposite arm, his feet propped up on the windowsill.  
  
Scotland glanced at England over the back of the sofa, and shook his head. "If you haven't got anything to drink, you can fuck off back to London."  
  
The thought was tempting, but England had got this far, and wasn't about to back out now Wales and Scotland knew he was here. He'd never hear the end of it, for one thing. "It's in the car. I couldn't carry everything at once." England dropped one of his bags to the floor and raised his hand in belated greeting, nodding to his brothers in turn. "Evening, Scotland. Wales."  
  
Wales' eyes narrowed. " _Cymru_ ," he said, sharply. "Christ, it's been sixteen years, _Lloegr_ , can you at least _pretend_ to make an effort?"  
  
"Sorry. _Cymru_."

The name always felt strange in England's mouth, heavy and unwieldy, and it snarled on his end of his tongue. There was a joke he could make about that, but it was an old one and not in particularly good taste. He didn't want to start the weekend with an argument.  
  
Scotland smirked at England and fished a pound coin out of his pocket, flicking it towards Wales' head. It clipped Wales' ear and then slithered down a crease in his T-shirt to rest in his lap.  
  
"Buy yourself some fucking vowels, _Wales_ ," he said, laughing as Wales' face flushed deep red.  
  
England bit the insides of his cheeks and forced down his own laughter, because Wales might let the jab pass now with nothing more than a muttered, "Bastard," and a swift cuff to the back of Scotland's head, but if England so much as smiled he might as well break his own jaw and save Wales the trouble.  
  
"What took you so long, anyway?" Scotland said, leaning away from the second cuff Wales directed his way to reinforce his point. "Me and Wales have been here for hours. We were beginning to think you weren't coming. We were devastated, believe me."  
  
"Crying into our beer," Wales added.  
  
England had delayed his journey for as long as he could, finding more and more elaborate ways of killing time in the guilty hope that there'd be a report of sudden unexpected road works blocking the entire M1 if he waited long enough. He'd finally bitten the bullet and got into his car when he found himself rearranging his alphabetised spice rack by colour after cleaning the grout in his downstairs bathroom with a toothbrush.  
  
"Traffic was appalling," he said.  
  
Scotland looked unconvinced, but he didn't call England out on his lie, nevertheless. Perhaps, unlikely as it might have been, he didn't want to argue either. Instead, he fished a bottle of Stella out of the box by the side of the sofa, and handed it to England. 

"You'd better get drinking. We've got a three pint head start."  
  


 

* * *

  
   
**One bottle of Stella**  
  


Ten minutes later, England had been thoroughly disabused of his notion that Scotland intended to make nice in any way. Clearly, his earlier oversight had been just that, and not a clumsy overture of good will as England had, admittedly somewhat optimistically, assumed.  
  
"What the fuck are you wearing, anyway?" Scotland asked, gesturing towards England's neatly-pressed trousers with the base of his bottle, and then tipping it to point out his shirt and tie with the neck. "I did tell you that this was going to be an outdoorsy sort of holiday, didn't I? You know, hiking; fishing; clambering over big rocks." He swung his arm around expansively, presumably miming a big rock. "That sort of thing."  
  
If Scotland wasn't going to attempt be civil, then England certainly wouldn't. "You also told me that we'd be staying in your mate's 'lovely little cottage'. The only one of those words with any truth to it is ‘little'."  
  
"It's rustic," Scotland countered.  
  
"It should be condemned. Did you notice there's a sapling growing out of the roof? Quite a sizeable one, at that."  
  
"I promised you outdoorsy, didn't I? It's so outdoorsy that you don't even have to leave the house to enjoy nature."  
  
"And it smells like something died in here. I suppose you're going to tell me that I should somehow appreciate how natural that is, as well."  
  
"There was a dead crow in the fireplace when we arrived," Wales cut in. " _Yr Alban_ threw it out into the bramble patch out back, but the smell definitely lingers."  
  
"Wonderful. Just wonderful." England drained the last dregs of his lager and carefully placed the empty bottle on the crate-table. "I can't wait to see what delights await me upstairs."  
  
Scotland's thick brows drew close above his nose. "Stop being such a ponce, England. We used to manage just fine without electricity and running water –" Scotland raised his voice to drown out England's squawk of protest at that – "three days of it won't kill you."  
  
Next year was Wales' choice of destination, but the year after that, England was going to book them into a five star hotel; somewhere with hot and cold running room service and a spa, and to hell with what America said about suitable bonding experiences. "Did you even check this place out before you decided we should come here? Ask to look at a photo, perhaps?"  
  
The pointed way that Scotland turned his back to England as he bent to grab them all fresh bottles was answer enough. England should have known to expect the worst as soon as Scotland had said he'd arranged this with someone in a pub; his brother had never shown the best judgement when he was drunk. He'd gone through the Great War saddled with the not-exactly-confidence-inspiring alias of Captain Wee Jock McSporran because they'd been two days from sober when they signed up and it was apparently hilarious at the time.  
  
"I'm sure _Lloegr_ has all the proper equipment packed, _Yr Alban_ ," Wales said.  
  
"All brand new, top-of-the-line, and still in its box, right, England?"  
  
England could only shrug, given that the accusation was entirely true. 

Scotland snorted. "You've got so soft lately. Maybe it'll do you some good to rough it for a little while." 

 

* * *

  
  
**Two bottles of Stella**

 

"Northern Ireland's really late," England said, checking his watch as he finished his second bottle.  
  
"He's not coming." Wales lit a cigarette, and squinted at England through the smoke. "Apparently, he and _Iwerddon_ have a thing on this weekend."  
  
"A _thing_?"  
  
Wales shrugged one shoulder, and leant back in his seat, blowing smoke rings. "Yeah, can't remember what it was exactly. _Yr Alban_ might know."  
  
"A thing," England repeated dully. If he'd known a thing was all it took, he'd be wearing his pyjamas and slippers and listening to ‘A Book at Bedtime' on Radio 4 whilst drinking a last cup of tea instead of lukewarm Stella right now. Granted, his kettle wouldn't be de-scaled and his grout would still be covered in mildew, but he thought it was a small price to pay.  
  
There was a muffled thump from the floor above, followed by a long string of extremely creative swearwords. "Just a heads up, lads, but the toilet doesn't flush, either," Scotland shouted down the stairs a moment later. "We might have to put the bramble patch to further use, instead." 

There was a beat of silence following Scotland's words, and then Wales chuckled. "Yeah, I bet _Gogledd_ 's kicking himself. I mean, who'd want to miss this?"　  
  


 

* * *

 

  
**Two bottles of Stella; Two glasses of whiskey, single malt**  
  


"Manic Street Preachers."  
  
"Whiny, depressing shit. And then they sold out."  
  
"Their music's political, not depressing. And if by ‘sold out', you mean ‘achieved what every band….'" Wales shook his head. "Never mind, I'm not going to win with this one, am I? How about the Stereophonics?"  
  
"Never managed to top their first album."  
  
"Tom Jones?"  
  
"One –" Scotland marked the point with his middle finger, raised towards Wales – "Tom Jones is not a band. And two -" he added his index finger – "Tom Jones, Wales? Really? You that desperate already?"  
  
Wales scowled, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Let's see you do better, _Yr Alban_. My people have the souls of _poets_."  
  
"Don't know where they're hiding those, then." Scotland ignored Wales' spluttered sound of protest as he continued with: "Okay, here goes. Snow Patrol, Belle  & Sebastian, Franz Ferdinand, The…"  
  
Scotland continued his list with some time, with Wales scoffing at every suggested name, or dismissing them with a curt jerk of his hand. This was an old argument – most of their arguments _were_ – and one which had never been settled to anyone's satisfaction. Scotland was usually able to cow Wales into submission by dint of being able to shout much louder than him, but that was just a technical victory and one which Wales was unwilling to concede.  
  
Unlike many of their other arguments, this one very rarely became violent, however, unless Scotland was in a particularly belligerent mood, Wales was closer to the end of his usually plentiful supply of patience than usual, or they were both too drunk to see straight.  
  
Once, when all three of those conditions aligned on a day which had also conspired to shit all over England from a great height, the argument had devolved into a near riot which had managed to deeply embarrass the brothers' boss and got them all banned from Spain's house for a couple of years.  
  
This didn't look as though it would be one of those days, exactly, though judging by the way Wales' face was steadily darkening and the way Scotland's hands were slowly opening and closing as though they wanted to make fists, England thought it may well end up with things being thrown. As the cottage really didn't need any more holes in its walls where no holes were ever intended to be, he thought it prudent to step in before the situation deteriorated any further.  
  
"The Beatles," he said.  
  
Wales and Scotland's mouths clamped shut almost in unison, and they both glared at England for a moment before Scotland growled and threw his hands up in the air. "Fuck it, England. You always do this." 

"Do what?" England asked, re-crossing his legs and then straightening the wrinkles from his trousers with exaggerated care. "Cite the name of what I believe to be the best English band? I thought that was the whole point of this conversation."  
  
"I told you we should always start with a Beatles handicap," Wales muttered under his breath.  
  
"No Beatles? Well, how about The Rolling Stones. Or The Kinks. Perhaps the Sex Pistols. Or if you want to skip ahead a couple of decades, maybe the Stone Roses, or Oasis, or –"  
  
"You suck the joy out of everything, England," Scotland said, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. "You're a man-shaped fun sponge. Always have been."  
  
"No, no, this is fun," England insisted, unable, as ever, to stop himself when Scotland looked as if he were about to burst something important; sod the ‘ _good of the Union_ '. "How about we do ‘best actors' next? Or ‘best authors', perhaps?"  
  
Scotland stood up suddenly from his perch on the sofa arm, scattering the bottle top tower he'd painstakingly constructed on the windowsill. "I'm going for a slash," he said. "Don't either of you fuckers dare touch my drink whilst I'm gone."  
  
"We could always try ‘best male voice choir' when you get back," Wales suggested. 

"Fuck you, too, Wales," Scotland shouted back from the doorway.  
  


 

* * *

  
   
**Three bottles of Stella; Three glasses of whiskey, single malt; Bottle of wine, cheap red**

  
  
England didn't even realise he was crying until Wales handed him a tissue and clumsily squeezed his knee in a way that was probably meant to be comforting, but was actually rather painful.  
  
"Don't coddle him, Wales," Scotland said, his voice thick with derision. "You know he always gets like this, and he gets over it again soon enough. You can practically set your watch by it: couple of hours in, and on go the waterworks."  
  
England's breath hitched in his chest as he tried to reply. "I– I –"  
  
Scotland's face suddenly loomed in front of him, far too close for comfort, but thankfully England's tears distorted it into near indistinctness: a pink blur with a dark slash for a mouth, and two hazy green dots where his eyes should be.  
  
"You must be the only person in the entire fucking country who still gives a shit about this, England. I mean, he was a lovely wee lad back in the day –"  
  
"He cut all the strings on my harp, once," Wales said.  
  
"He was a lovely wee lad apart from that time he vandalised Wales' harp –"  
  
"And he used to take the piss out of my poetry. Read it out in a silly voice. Didn't sound anything like me."  
  
"He was a lovely wee lad with good taste, but he grew up to be an enormous prat. He drives you _insane_ , England; you should be glad you got shot of him when you did."  
  
England tried to force words which may have been ‘ungrateful git' or something else entirely past the constriction in his throat, but all he could manage was a series of gulping sobs.  
  
"For fuck's sake." Scotland's hand hovered somewhere near England's shoulder, but quickly retreated without making contact. "They all grew up and left eventually, anyway. You've never been like this about Australia, or New Zealand, or Canada. Just punch him, fuck him –" 

England shook his head vigorously, and choked out: "It's not– It's not like –"  
  
"Fuck him," Scotland continued as though he hadn't been interrupted, "whatever it takes to get it out of your system, because we were sick of hearing about it two hundred years ago. You don't see me and Wales crying about him, do you, and he was as much ours as yours."  
  
"I cried when he broke my harp," Wales said, pressing another tissue into England's hand.

 

* * *

  
  
  
**Three bottles of Stella; Three glasses of whiskey, single malt; Bottle of wine, cheap red; Two cans of Strongbow; One cigarette**  
  


 

Talking to Scotland was a conversational minefield for England at the best of times, and not one he had the necessary skills to navigate for long when he wasn't completely sober. He couldn't recall precisely what he'd said to set his brother off this time – William Wallace rang a faint bell, but England would have to be suicidal-level drunk to mention that name in Scotland's presence unless it was in the context of mocking Mel Gibson's portrayal of him in Braveheart – but here he was, nevertheless, pinned to the floor with Scotland sitting on his chest.  
  
Scotland was taller and heavier than England, but England had fought with him for as far back as he could remember and knew all of his weak spots. Unfortunately, Scotland had fought with England just as long, and knew that he knew. He caught hold of England's wrist before England could jab a thumb in the back of his knee.  
  
"You've always been a slippery little fucker," Scotland spat as England scrabbled to find enough purchase on the floor to roll out from beneath him. "Are you going to help me here, Wales?" 

"I'm not –"  
  
"Don't let him drag you into this, Wales." England tried to look beseechingly at Wales over Scotland's shoulder, although the effect was probably somewhat ruined by his rapidly swelling right eye. He could take either of them on their own, given time, but he stood little chance if they banded together.  
  
" _Cymru_ ," Wales corrected quietly. "Come on, _Yr Alban_ , let him go. We're supposed to be trying to get along. For the good of the Union, and all that."  
  
Clearly, their boss had been giving Wales the exactly the same pep talks as England. He nodded encouragingly. "Yes, the go–"  
  
Scotland clamped a hand over England's mouth, cutting off the rest of his words. "Yeah, the Union. Don't you remember what it was like being forced to live with him all the time? How he ordered us around, complained all the bloody time about every little thing we did, treated us as though we were just cluttering up the place, even though we had never had a fucking choice about being there in the first place.  
  
"Or how he tried to steal your language from you." Scotland's voice dropped, becoming low and wheedling.  
  
England could see what Scotland was trying to do, so he bit Scotland's palm in an attempt to make him let go. Scotland's fingers merely tightened around England's face.  
  
"That's not _exactly_ what happened," Wales said, but his voice was a little shaky.  
  
Wales was the calmest of the three of them by far, and usually slow to anger, but he'd had quite a bit to drink and Scotland knew how to press his buttons, just as thoroughly as he knew how to press England's.  
  
England kicked his legs out again and twisted his body sharply to one side in another bid for freedom. Scotland rode the movement easily, and smirked down at England before saying: "He definitely stole Arthur from you; name and all."  
  
Livid spots of colour had appeared high on Wales' cheekbones, and his nostrils flared with every deep breath he took. "That was all such a long time ago. W– Water under the bridge. I think we all –"  
  
"Do you know he said just a few weeks ago?" Scotland's tone was now light and conversational, and he winked slyly at England. "He said that your rugby team is complete shit nowadays." 

" _Twll tin_ ," Wales snarled, his hands balling into fists at his sides.  
  


 

* * *

  
  
**Three bottles of Stella; Three glasses of whiskey, single malt; Bottle of wine, cheap red; Rum (straight from the bottle, amount unknown); Two cans of Strongbow; Three cigarettes; One cigar**  
  


Wales was in the kitchen, singing something maudlin in Welsh. Or possibly vomiting. It was hard to tell the difference either way.  
  
England took another swallow of rum, wincing as it washed over all the sore spots inside his mouth where his teeth had cut in. He might be smarting from his wounds, but the fact that the fight had sobered him up to an unacceptable level was far more upsetting.  
  
"Try pressing this against your eye," Scotland said, handing England a can of Strongbow. "Might help bring down the swelling a bit."  
  
He sat down next to England on the sofa; far too close, with his right hip and thigh pressed up against England's. England shuffled further down the sofa in an attempt to put some distance between them, but Scotland followed him and attached himself to England's side again.  
  
"Scotland, I –"  
  
Scotland flung a heavy arm around England's shoulders, and said, "You know that fight didn't mean anything, right. I still love you, Runt."  
  
England grimaced, and shrugged the arm off. Scotland thought a quick hug, an unconvincing expression of affection, and an offer of alcohol was sufficient to absolve him of any blame for the trouble he so often caused. Strangely, it seemed to work the majority of the time, but England's forgiveness was not so easily bought.  
  
"No, you don't."  
  
"Hey, you're my brother. Of course I love you." Scotland pasted on what he considered his most winning smile, and nudged England with his shoulder. "Even though you're a twat."  
  
"I seem to remember you drenching me with gravy and leaving me out in the forest for the wolves to eat when we were kids."  
  
"It was a _joke_!"  
  
"It happened more than once, Scotland. And then you abandoned us all to Rome. Very brotherly."  
  
"I had to take care of me and mine, you ken," Scotland said, scowling. "It was nothing personal."  
  
"I didn't see you rushing to my defence when I fell into the Frog's greasy clutches, either."  
  
"You need to loosen up a bit; you're always so fucking gloomy," Scotland said, tugging on England's tie until England batted his hands away. "It's no wonder you don't have any friends." 

"Thank you, Scotland. You're always such a comfort to me." England got up from the sofa and moved unsteadily back to the armchair. "I feel so much better now."  
  
"Any time," Scotland said, toasting England with his cider.  
  
They sat in silence for a time – England swigging his rum, and Scotland building a low wall out of empty cans – until it was broken by Scotland clearing his throat, no doubt preparing to dispense another pearl of useless familial wisdom.  
  
"You should invite the weans over for Christmas dinner this year," Scotland said, his eyes firmly fixed on his engineering project. "You always say you will, but you never do."  
  
England had been expecting Scotland to say something entirely different, and the only response he could summon for a moment was dumb shock. He eventually managed to ask, "Why?"  
  
"Well, it might stop you moping about America not being there like you usually do at Christmas, and you're always complaining about being lonely, anyway –"  
  
"I do not," England spluttered.  
  
"Not when you're sober, perhaps, but I remember _everything_ , England. Hell, why don't you go all out and have a really big do; ask Canada to bring that new mystery boyfriend of his, try inviting Ireland again. France might even put in an appearance if you can control yourself long enough to ask him politely."  
  
England let the thought settle in his, admittedly slightly foggy, mind for a moment or two, and it still seemed like a halfway decent suggestion afterwards. Except the part about France. "I'll think about it," he said warily.  
  
"Admit it, I give fantastic advice. I'm the best big brother ever." Scotland grinned. "And, England? If you tell everyone you're not going to cook, they might even come."  
  


 

* * *

  
   
**Five bottles of Stella; Four glasses of whiskey, single malt; Bottle of wine, cheap red; Three cans of Strongbow; Rum (straight from bottle, amount unknown); Two cans of Boddingtons; Small bottle of liquid, provenance uncertain (possibly aftershave); Seven cigarettes; One cigar**  
  


 

" _Lloegr_! _Lloegr_! England!" Wales shouted from the darkness behind England. "At least come and put your trousers back on! You'll catch your death of cold!"  
  
England put his head down and kept running in as close to a straight line as he was still capable of.  
  
The fae had always been much better company than his brothers, but they always disappeared whenever his brothers were around – even his unicorn abandoned him – possibly because, unlike England, they had turned their backs on magic centuries ago; thrown their gift away for nothing but fleeting pleasure.  
However, a thought had bubbled to the top of England's slightly jumbled and completely pickled mind: There was a magical creature rumoured to make Windermere its home. A second, less coherent but much more urgent, thought had closely followed the first: He needed to find it. And possibly spend the rest of the weekend with it instead of his brothers.  
  
Eventually, England ran out of steam and had to stop to catch his breath, and a few minutes later, a diffuse light illuminated a ragged circle of the scrubby grass at his feet. It slowly grew brighter – if no more steady – as Scotland's heavy footfalls became audible, Wales' quicker, lighter steps following behind.  
  
"England, you numpty, what the fuck are you doing?" Scotland asked. "I haven't seen you move that fast for about fifty years. I'm surprised you haven't had a heart attack."  
  
England tried to marshal his thoughts into some sort of coherent order, but "Tizzie Wizzie," proved to be the best he could manage.  
  
"What? Are you going to be sick? Because if you are, it's best you get it over and done with out here."  
  
"'m looking for the Tizzie Wizzie." England treated the words as if they were made of glass, moving his mouth around each one with the utmost care, so Scotland could understand him, slow as he was. "'s a magical creature."  
  
"Looking for the Tizzie Wizzie. Which is a magical creature." Scotland said in the tone of a parent humouring a small child who believed there was a monster under their bed. "Sure, let's all search for the Tizzie Wizzie, England."  
  
"What does it look like, _Ll_ \- _Lloegr_?" Wales asked, crouching down to shine his torch under a scrubby bush.  
  
"'s like a little bit like a hedgehog, but with wings –" Scotland started to chuckle, but quickly smothered it with the back of his hand – "and a long bushy tail. Not that you two'll be much help, anyway. Can't see this stuff anymore, can you?" England asked, snatching Scotland's torch from him and then shining it in his face. "'Cause you're not pure; always carryin' on with France and so on."  
  
Wales snickered. "That's not how it wo–"  
  
"We can hold torches for you, then, stuff like that," Scotland said, elbowing Wales in the side as he stepped forward to stand at England's shoulder. "Come on, are we going to look for this thing or not? It's fucking freezing out here."  
  
England squinted up at his brother, suspicious at the interruption, but Scotland's expression was bland and he looked as innocent as he was capable of, so England chalked the unwarranted violence towards Wales up as just another instance of Scotland being a wanker, and dismissed it from his mind. "Let's go."  
  
The search was more fruitful than England had dared to hope. They were sidetracked a few times by Wales' excited discoveries of what turned out to be oddly shaped rocks, but England found the Tizzie Wizzie by pure happenstance when he sat down to have another breather.  
  
After England had vented his frustration by kicking a tree and swearing loudly at the blameless Wales who happened to be standing behind him at the time, and checked that his arse wasn't covered in puncture marks, he picked up the Tizzie Wizzie and held it tight, crushing its delicate wings against his chest.  
  
"Tizzie Wizzie," he said, laughing with the sheer delight of finally having some decent company again. 

"That's fantastic, England. I'm happy for you, really, I am." Scotland said, rolling his eyes. "Now, can we please get back inside before my bollocks drop off?"  

 

* * *

 

  
**Two aspirins; One glass of water**  
  


The cold light of day revealed the alleged Tizzie Wizzie to be nothing more than a slightly confused hedgehog with two leaves stuck to its back, and cut through the back of England's skull like a band saw. After a couple of false starts, he managed to stagger into the kitchen to share a cold can of beans with a rather wan-looking Wales. Scotland was doing something outside which seemed to involve a lot of crashing around to the accompaniment of a loud and off-key rendition of ‘ _The Flower of Scotland_ '.  
  
Wales groaned, and ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair, pushing it forward so that it covered his eyes. "He's very… chipper this morning. I don't know how he does it."  
  
England passed their one and only fork back to Wales. "Maybe we can push him in the lake. Make it look like an accident. If we're lucky, he might sink."  
  
"Hmm, I wouldn't go that far." Wales frowned. "He's just –"  
  
The crashing grew louder and louder, finally culminating in Scotland bursting in through the kitchen door, wielding a map. He was wearing his everyday kilt and scuffed walking boots, which were covered in something whose smell overwhelmed even the lingering stench of rotten crow.  
  
"Nice to see you two layabouts have finally seen fit to crawl out of your beds. I've already been out, getting the lay of the land, whilst you wasted the best part of the day." He slammed the map down on the rickety little table Wales and England were seated at, and then began tracing a path with his finger which traversed some scarily tightly-packed contour lines. "Now, here's the route I've planned for today…"  
  
Wales leant around Scotland's back as he chattered on, and caught England's eye. "It'd work better if we stuffed his pockets full of rocks first," he said.


End file.
